Lux Aeterna
by abhorrent
Summary: AU, Rated M for Safety; When all is good and good is well, you better well make sure you watch where you're going. Light/L, Mello/Matt
1. Prologue

**Warnings: **Explicit Drug use, homosexuality, and themes that most likely aren't suitable for anyone unstable.

**Pairings:** Light/L, Mello/Matt/Mello

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Death Note. Neither do I own the general basis of this plot. My inspiration—and general reference/connotations—came from _Requiem For a Dream_. The title is based off of the theme song for said movie, composed by Clint Mansell.

**Other Note:** This is the prologue, also-known-as "The Only Chapter to be In First Person." So, yeah, enjoy.

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**Anybody** who has ever said that life always ends with a happy ending has never lived.

I, for one, can bear testimony to the aforementioned statement—seeing as though I have verily lived through my very own personal torments, even at the tender age of twenty. There is no line created in which man can state they've been through an entire lifetime—so who are you, or anyone, to judge me?

I'd like to tell you that, if you hadn't already known, opiates are, to be blunt, wonderful. My choice, of course, would be that beautiful, beautiful heroin—commonly known as smack, H, scag, horse, dope and its proper name: Diacetylmorphine. Though, I'm also partial to fentanyl lollipops (I happen to know a cancer patient or two who are _more_ than willing to share with my poor soul, if you catch my drift).

Now, seeing as that tidbit of information still has you wondering about anything, let me tell you a bit about how opiates make you feel. Some movie said it's something like multiplying an orgasm by a million, then adding some more—they weren't off by much. Imagine getting that hard-earned raise you've been working on getting for five years, and then to come home to a nice cozy household on a rather biting winter's night. You make love to your significant other and then you two curl up beside the fireplace with some delicious cocoa (or coffee, if you're too "mature" for cocoa) and watch the perfect film.

..And multiply that by about one-thousand.

(I apologize for the cheezy analogy, but I could not think of any other way to describe the euphoria to you without going off on a series of incomprehensible tangents that would have you feeling bitter and frustrated in the end.)

I'd like to let you all know that I am not alone in my escapades; my best friend's name is Mihael Keehl (alias: Mello) and my boyfriend's name is Light Yagami (I know, a gay junkie! I'm just a walking AIDS case). We were once part of a great plan that would make us millionaires who hadn't a care in the world. We were going to be famous, holding to ourselves pounds of pure white gold.

At least, that was what we dreamed. What actually happened is another tale to be told with time, as you will soon find out.

Now, has anyone ever heard of Murphy's Law? You know, the one that states "Whatever can go wrong, _will_ go wrong?" Well, that statement holds true with the story of my little life.

I used own a plethora of instruments, and I owned the ability to play each and every one with the finesse and skill of a professional. I once had aspirations and goals and happiness. I'm a damn genius, to be honest. My I.Q is so high that I could very well be _the_ Mensa scholar.

My adoptive father, Quillsh Wammy, told me when I was a child that whatever would happen to me in my lifetime, he'd always be proud of me.

He hasn't hugged me since my high school graduation, and even then it was an awkward, sort-of there hug. Not that I cared, it's just the recognition could've gone places. Places which may or may not have included becoming a successful musician.

Now, I stated a bit ago that opiates were wonderful—yeah, they are, but they're no frolicking freely through the posies type business. No, really, they have a consequence.

I used to tell myself everyday, "No, I'm really not a junkie. Junkies are those strung up bastards who would provide oral pleasure upon another's phallus for their next fix. I'll never be like that." Ah, to be naïve and innocent.

Now, I'm not going to give any of our story away here, now, so don't get any ideas. I just want you to know that heroin, or any opiate to be exact, should not be taken unless you know what the fuck you're getting into. No one should do it without knowing every risk, positive, and medium. This shit ain't no weed; you _can_ die. Don't mess around, man, or else it'll bit you in the ass.

My first opiate experience was with morphine. I cannot remember the exact reasons for my visit to the hospital, but I remember being intravenously fed the drug and experiencing a happiness that I had never known.

Being an orphan with my given past, I was probably affected by this euphoria more than most. It made me feel as though I had no care in the world; the world was going to hell and I could care less. At the time, it was all about me, and other people's problems could go to hell.

That was when I began using. I began with some washed-out junkster who I'd give a few bucks to and he'd smoke some opium seeds with me, or give me some codeine for a discount. He was so drug-addled that I once gave him Monopoly money and he gave me a good dime. I'm not usually dirty and sleazy like that, but this man was loaded, some famous artist or whatever.

Sooner or later, as with every other tale that it told to the world, my friends found out. More specifically, one Mihael Keehl, a little Russian/German hybrid with enough anger and malevolence from his ancestry to begin yet another world war.

I had smoked some more seeds, and deemed it fit to get my doped-up, seventeen-year old ass out of my house. Going on a walk in a daze, eyes glazed and pupils dilated to hell, everything was auspicious, grand and happy and wonderful. I happened upon Mello at an arcade; he was skipping school and selling cannabis to the stoners at the joint.

I told him that's cool (what else could I say) and had a huge, goofy grin on my face. He had probably assumed something was amiss at that moment, seeing as though I am not really the most sociable a person, and asked me, to be frank:

"What the fuck are you on?"

Just to let you know, I am a compulsive liar. Also, to bring Freudian psychology into the mix, I am stuck on the Oral stage—which more or less means I have an oral fixation. So I began to suck on my thumb (don't ask why I remember that) and began an incomprehensible ramble as to what I was doing, and that I just wanted to enjoy the pompous weather.

"Smack. You're on smack. Either that, or some really good weed." He had deduced, staring at me with those pretty, weird little blue eyes. And blond hair. He is part of the master race, you know? The Aryans that shall conquer the world one day back in the 40's. Compared to him I look like a lowly little Jew.

But, I digress. We soon became friends when he told me he had used before, and smoked a joint to seal our friendship. It was then that we took a few months off of school to travel the world.

That was how I met Light.

We were on our heroin-addled escapades and had just landed in Tokyo, Japan. Walking through the slums, we were suddenly jumped by a group of gang-bangers. They wanted to take mine and Mello's virginity, and then steal our drugs and money and throw us into a ditch.

Of course, we retaliated at the sudden and likely usurp of our lives, drugs, and freedom. Mello pulled out his handy-dandy Glock (how we got it into Japan, not even I know) and began waving it around with malice.

Being gang-bangers, of course, _one _of the seven had to have had a gun.

And, what do you know, _four_ of them did. Right around then was the time that the smack was wearing off, and I was getting more and more scared by the moment. The pessimistic thoughts had returned, and I verily believed that I would meet my demise on those piss-stained, dirty streets.

But then he showed up in all his radiant, awing glory. His chestnut hair dancing in the wind and a set scowl upon his face. Light Yagami, third-year at some prestigious Japanese high school, looking murderous and making these street-thugs sweat.

They'd apologized profusely, and set us back on our feet. To this day, I don't know why those boys were scared shitless of Yagami, though I have a vague concept: he's like a banshee. I honestly believe that the boy was once like a leader to those boys, and had beat the shit out of them when they split.

You see, Light was a coke-head, though he despised the sensation and the feeling of having a heart attack. You see, drugs are less available in Japan than they are in, say, the Americas. Most Japanese junkies get their fix from prescribed drugs—which are given to a man, usually, with not so much a question asked.

So it was then that I introduced him to that beautiful, horrific H. He was as hooked on it as we were, and decided two months later to join us on our quest and then return with us to England. It was then that we moved to Liverpool, and that brings us to now.

Last summer was around the time that I was recognized by some fancy British schools for musicians and composers. Around this time frame was the time I began seriously dating Light. He and I were, and are still, in love. Whenever I'm with him, I experience triple the euphoria.

But I sh'an't go on a ramble about love and being a romantic, for I am far from one. I'd much rather conclude this opening tale for you guys, and hope that you stick around until the details begin to fill in. Myself, my thoughts, don't really enjoy explicit detail like they used to. Don't get me wrong, I love to find the subtleties in the little things, it give me unadulterated pleasures.

It's just, lying in a hospital bed, I find that I could care _less_. My apathy has taken control of me, and all of my pleasures are nil. Not that my tale is completely negative, because things _do_ have the positives. If everything was dreary, then I might've committed suicide—overdosed on smack and inadvertently become another statistic.

But I haven't, yet, and I don't think I ever shall.

Now, I'm not saying that every person who tries an opioid becomes a dependent beast who loses everything and throws themselves into a downward spiral; there are many wondrous things to come from the opium seed. Take new medicines and anesthetics/painkillers, along with beautiful creations in the Arts. So please don't get me wrong and become frustrated and angry over nothing. John Lennon used heroin and look at him! Just minus the psychotic stalker/murderer that he had, along with his past of beating Cynthia, and it's okay.

So, yes, not all users are abusers. It's all a matter of mind over body. Withdrawals hurt less when you tell yourself that they won't hurt, and that you don't need it. Trust me, I know.

It's just human nature to mess a good thing up. And I do hope that my story will clear things up to you, and you can possibly also see, on a more subliminal level, the issues with current humanity. There are many things wrong with how society functions, and the little people are the ones that notice it.

You don't want to know that, friends, do you? You're just curious about what the fuck happened to me, and why I'm miserable in a hospital bed, strung-out and lonely and in constant need of company to keep me from suicide. People don't care about the outcome, they just want the details.

So, friends, please do enjoy my story. I really hope that you don't, in the end, hate drugs. But instead hate the injustices brought upon 5 human beings in England.

Thanks to you in advance,  
L

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**A/N: **What happened to the happy, fluffy time? No clue, Delirue. But, I do hope that you try to respect this one, as well. AND LINE BREAKS AREN'T WORKING! WHAT THE FUCK?

Oh, and to the readers of _A Vicious Circle_, I'll probably update that later today.

Review and give criticism, praise, hate, or trolling. I don't mind.


	2. And All Was Good

_Oh hay. Right. Thanks for the reviews y'all. Here's a present: Chapter Two_

_

* * *

_Every week, every god-damn week of every _god-damn_ year, it was like someone pressed the reset button on life.

L would come to visit his adoptive father, eat a small lunch, discuss tedious and menial this-that's, and then pry the man's precious violin from his wrinkled, shriveled hands so he could pawn it off to some aficionado with a fetish for classical music. Then Watari would have to hobble down to the center, chit-chat with the man holding his violin captive, and buy aforementioned object back from him for a small sum.

All in a week's work, so they say.

Except this time, Watari decided to throw a tantrum.

"No, Lawliet! Not any more!" The man fumed, pointing an accusatory finger at the boy. "Leave me be!" He stumbled into the closet, to where his treasure was, and locked himself within the small expanse of space. This violin was all of his well-being compacted into one small, six-stringed instrument, and he'd rather suffocate in a closet before he let it waste away.

"Pa, please!" L knuckled the door, becoming increasingly agitated with the situation. He couldn't see the big deal; he did this every week for Christ's sake! "You'll get it back in a few hours! Come on!" He knocked harder on the closet door. "Please don't be difficult!"

"No means _No_." It seemed the stubborn old man took one too many cranky pills this morning. Lawliet sighed.

"Why do you have to be like this, hm?" He slid down the wall and sat beside the door. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Why do you have to make me a nervous freak? Do you enjoy seeing me spaz out?" His voice became more subdued, with a touch of melancholy.

Watari paused, fingering the leather case that held his precious. "Lawliet, it's not that."

"Then what _is_ it?"

When Watari found his could not find a just answer to coincide with his own selfish desires, he emitted a small sigh. Slowly, surely, the closet door was opened, and the violin slithered between the opening, before the door was again closed. L tenderly picked up the object, as thought it were a treasure, and picked himself off of the floor.

He rapped gently on the door. "You going to come out?"

There was no response, and the silent responses choked L. He sniffed and nodded, walking out of the room without another word.

When the door closed behind him, he crawled down the first flight of stair and was reunited with Mihael, who gave him a wicked smile. "Got it?"

L rolled his eyes, giving his friend a blank stare. He then waved the case in the boy's face. "Obviously."

The blond scowled, his full lips turning down in a sick grimace. "Fuck you." He then laughed. "Well then, let's get the fuck out of here." He wrinkled his nose. "It smells like old people and piss." He gave a haughty snort and began to descend the stairs, L following closely behind.

"You know, you could show a little more appreciation," L noted wryly, as he tightened his grip on the case handle. Usually he wouldn't have minded Mello's lack of appropriate attitude, but Mello didn't have to deal with Watari. And that, in and of itself, was taxing.

With a dramatic gesture, which could also be interpreted as highly offensive, Mello responded to L's critique with no words. Which, L noted, was a first for the boy.

They hit the bottom step and sauntered from the elderly home. As they walked by, several geriatrics sat steeping in the broiling sun. Most, if not all of these shriveled, pruning men and ladies were greased slick; their false teeth were nestled comfortably on their tongues. The men, as per the implied code for elderly males, were clad in nothing short of a banana hammock. Their liver-spotted chests, just as heavily greased as their heads, were reddened and beginning to resemble that of a cancerous ham. The women, clad in the height of haute-couture in the 1940s, lay almost spread eagle: their overly-enlarged sunglasses did nothing to hide their sunken faces, nor did their over-sized, gaudy, and otherwise outlandish caps.

It all worked to make L's stomach clench. However, he was raised in a mannered household, so he sucked it up and put on his most believable front.

He gave his on-lookers a curt wave and a tight smile. "Good afternoon."

He was met with a grumbled, hoarse chorus of "well you too, dearie"s, "G'day"s, and several "you're in my sunlight"s. Mello didn't even bother with formalities, opting instead to stare each and every balding, sagging being down, silently questioning their existence in this world. Because, you shouldn't live past sixty-five.

Or so he says.

Luckily for them, they were able to turn the corner with little confrontation. Soon, they were well on their ways to pawn off their beloved violin. And all was good.

* * *

The grand piano hummed a low, guttural moan that reverberated throughout the expanse of the studio. And, as the pure resonance hit his ears, he let out a pleasant sigh. This was what he lived for.

Light sat on his bench, his long fingers splayed out along the keyboard. He gazed adoringly, like a father would his own daughter, at the ornate instrument in front of him. At times, he almost feared the wondrous power this unassuming object held. This instrument alone had the ability to make men feel. It can be a love song, a homage, a tragedy, and a comedy--all at once. It could be both malevolent and yet so vicious.

It was the most sacred being he ever had the pleasure of laying eyes upon.

And this--this duplication of a perfect form--this was all his. He had his own little taste of heaven, and God be damned if anything though about prying it from his hands.

He took a deep inhale, held it momentarily, and then exhaled in a swift motion. He positioned his fingers, hunched his back, and began with almost frantic adoration his interpretation of Chopin's Scherzo Number 1. In B minor, Op. 20; of course. There would be no other way.

His fingers danced and swung, gliding with a chilling precision and care across the keys. Every note, every movement was already memorized, as though this composition were an old friend. He made love to the keys, became a part of the instrument, a separate entity existing in that instance, that one, significant part of a second. For now, nothing else mattered.

Light's eyes slid closed; his chiseled face, although in the throes of a complex and otherwise challenging composition, slid into a sort of tranquility. Sweat beaded on his forehead, making patterns down his face, kissing his lips and hugging his neck.

But none of that mattered. Not one little bit of it.

If one would look hard enough, they would see the ghost of a smile touch his lips. However, no one else was currently present to witness such an ephemeral and holy event.

That was, until L weaseled his way into the apartment, his smile growing fonder with each passing note. He slowly, without a moment's hesitation, crept closer and closer to his lover, until he stood behind the man. He watched with adoration as Light's skilled and professional fingers moved with elegance, locking away each moment as though it were a treasure.

And by the time Light was even aware of L's presence, ten more golden minutes had passed.

Light smiled at his boyfriend. "Hey."

L leaned forward, resting his chin on Light's head. "Hi. How're you?"

"Great. Yourself?"

A small smirk wormed it's way onto L's pale face. "Just fine. Especially now."

Light gave a light chuckle. "I see. So, how'd everything go?"

L accompanied Light on his little bench, sitting opposite faced. "Watari got a little hostile today. But other than that, everything else went well." He took a moment to grin. "Actually," he held up a conspicuous brown lunch bag. "It went a little more than well today."

"Oh?" Light grinned, and L rested his head on Light's broad shoulder. "Really?"

L grunted. "Hm, yeah. Apparently Matt met this guy. And apparently that guy is in need of a few more pushers. And it just so happened that we came around at that specific time." He sat up, more excited now as he spoke. "And so, it turns out that if Mello and me are willing to sling out some dope to a few junkies, we'll be able to rack up thirty-percent profit. And," he took a deep breath, "if we're good enough, we might be having a few promotions on our hands."

Light looked slightly unsettled. "Do you think this is a good idea?"

L frowned, his high wearing off. "Why not?"

Light shook his head, playing "Chops" with little interest. "It's just, it's dangerous out there. I mean, what if some strung out hobo decides to knife you?"

L scoffed. "Come on. I mean, the guy's going to make sure we're strapped. Besides, you think Mello would let anyone knife, shank, or shoot us? He's like a rabid Shepard, now."

Light chuckled. "I guess that's true."

"And besides," L stood, brushing imaginary dust from his bottom. He turned to his boyfriend, "with all of the money we save up, we'll be able to buy a kilo and then just smooth sail. From that, we could afford to buy you that piano studio you've always wanted." He grinned, his enthusiasm returning tenfold. "You can teach all those little kids how to 'appreciate the finer arts,' or whatever."

With a soft punch at L's expense, Light stood. He wrapped his arms around L. "I guess I'm sold."

And all was good.

* * *

_Holy snap. There's chapter one._

_If you want to know about just what the hell Light was playing, here's a really good version: http : / /www .youtube. com/watch ?v (equals)xp1H49HvlGM or just copy n' paste_ Frederic chopin's scherzo no1 in B minor, op.20. _That also works._

_So review, tell me your thoughts. I haven't written in several months, so please pardon any and all grammatical or contextual errors. But yeah, review.  
_


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